


The Peaceful World of Mine

by Kirichan



Category: K-pop, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Drama, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:14:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirichan/pseuds/Kirichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story was translated from Hungarian by Nárcisz.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Peaceful World of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This story was translated from Hungarian by Nárcisz.

I was fully submerged in my thoughts, one squiggly sentence following the other. I felt that I was becoming one with one of my own characters; the beating of our hearts hammered almost the same rhythm in our chests. It made me feel so fantastic when I could identify with either character of the story to this extent. I could place myself in the shoes of the most irrelevant, innocent supporting character just as easily as in the important and evil protagonist’s. Sometimes I wished I had a life as exciting as theirs but other times I feared that I might become so fascinated with them that they would eventually push me into the depths of obscurity.  
  
I was quite a strange author, or rather most people thought me as such. To be honest, I did not know why my books were bought and read and why critics wrote tons of articles about them. I did not know either that why the readers did not understand my stories and the actions and feelings of the characters. Mostly it did not even bother me though because despite all this, they read my stories and I liked to write.  
  
Once the thick talons of inspiration got hold of me, I could not get free until I wrote everything I had on my mind. Other times I ran around hopelessly, screaming to Inspiration not to let me down. There was a time when I just sat in the dirty nothingness of my room for days and did not go out once. It was Joonyoung alone who could make me keep going. He was the only one whose voice engulfed me in a feeling of softness and whose touch was even more calming than the caress of a mother. He was the only one whom I could love with all of my heart. I loved him more than any of my characters or strokes of my pen.  
  
The letters materialized as if I was not the one writing them, as if the story was willfully creating itself. I had been often told that I have gone crazy, that my place would rather be in a mental asylum. Maybe I really was a madman or simply just a pitiful human being but it was writing what made me feel alive. Writing was almost everything to me, only one thing could exceed it: the selfless love I felt for Joonyoung.  
  
My room was cloaked in darkness, only a little beam of the lamp’s light illuminated my desk; I did not need more light to be able to see the rounding, wonderful letters. The story went on by itself and I gave myself over to this indescribable feeling. However, just as I have filled one of the white pages with blackly glistening, dancing ink, the so familiar cracking of the floor and the sound of quiet, approaching footsteps have caught my attention.  
  
I stopped and let my beloved pen paint a tiny, ornate ink spot on the margin of the filled page. I never wrote when he was coming. I could not give way to my passion then, even though I oftentimes forgot to even go to the toilet when I was withdrawn to my own little world. I loved him more than writing so whenever he strayed into my world, I could only care about him.  
  
His hollow knocking echoed in my nearly empty room and I knew that after the third knock, he would reach for the knob and slowly open the door. Then, as always, he would put a glass of 100 percent orange juice on the edge of my worn wooden desk and address me worriedly, stroking my back so lightly that it would make me tremble and shiver. His much-awaited touch came as expected. I felt even the tiniest movements of his bony hand as he drew tender circles on my back. A suppressed sigh escaped my mouth no matter how hard I tried to fight it, blending with the coldly writhing air.  
  
"You should come out at least to eat something," he said as he leaned by my side to scan the lines I wrote on the top of the page and I could smell the fine scent of his skin. His short, black eyelashes guarded his curiously seeking eyes as if they were treasures. "One of your characters is in love again, eh?" he asked in his playful voice, digging through my ruffled hair with a warm smile on his face. "I still don’t know how you can write about love when you’ve never been in love before."  
  
I devotedly observed the manly features of his face and did not care about the painful little pebbles grinding at my heart; after all it was him I was watching.  
  
"Don’t make such a childish face," he grinned, letting his big palm fall lightly to his side. "But don’t forget to eat. I put the food in the fridge."  
  
Careful steps, concerned words, then the faint click of the door whispered in the dark silence and suddenly everything was like before, just as if a clock had struck midnight. The pen got a life of its own again and I surrendered to my desires. I let the empty pages scream like prisoners as the ink was binding them in strong chains. Because this was almost my everything. Because I almost loved this the best.


End file.
